


Savoureux

by Helholden



Series: Ghosts on Your Pillow, Blame on My Hands [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, Manipulation, Mind Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:32:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She makes him wait for it, but he sees the answer in her eyes before she ever says it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Savoureux

**Author's Note:**

> This won't make much sense unless you read Part 1 and Part 2 first. It's all connected, and this piece references events that came before it and concludes the story, so make sure to go back and read those before proceeding with this one.

* * *

 

 

He sees her coming long before she ever reaches his front door.

 

She was expected, after all. Peter invited her back over a week ago after their first highly intense encounter in the loft. He wanted to blame it all on her powers, the banshee inside of her leading Lydia to his doorstep—an omen in anyone else’s eyes, but not in his. Now, he questions even that. Peter saw her plundering in his desk, and he didn’t say anything.

 

Lydia Martin, charmer of adolescent teenage boys, trying to seduce him. Oh, she is beautiful, and he would never deny that. She is also intelligent and resourceful far beyond the capabilities of her friends—and bold to come into his house and try such tactics on him. Peter isn’t the type to mock her for it or shame her. Hell, he admires Lydia for going the extra mile in the first place. He certainly won’t be forgetting any of the memories they made associated with that night.

 

Confronting her, however, he intends to do.

 

He wonders how well she will take it, wearing the yellow sundress he told her to wear with no panties on underneath.

 

Peter cranes his neck, watching as she looks both ways before crossing the street. He turns away from the windows and crosses the floor toward the door, waiting for buzzer to signal her arrival. It isn’t long before the lift is moving, and not long after that before the door slides open with a low thrumming sound, revealing her face to him.

 

Lydia stands there, one hand on her white handbag and the other hanging loose at her side. There is a white cardigan over her sundress, unbuttoned, and white strappy sandals to complete her look. She isn’t wearing any perfume, though. It’s all natural, her scent, and Peter allows himself to breathe it in slowly as he meets her gaze.

 

Stepping aside, he gives her room to walk by. “Come in, Lydia,” Peter says with a wave of his arm. Lydia smiles warmly and waltzes past him as if she owns the place, and he closes his eyes as he gets a fresh whiff of her clean scent blowing by in the traces of air behind her.

 

With the door shut behind him, he is faced with Lydia halfway across the floor of the loft. She gazes out of the windows, turns on her heels, a seductive look on her face, and lets her handbag slip down her arm before falling to the ground.

 

She thinks she’s being clever. Peter can’t help but smile.

 

Lydia falters for a moment. A stare of hunger she can read; his smile, however, baffles her.

 

“Why don’t you put your bag on the desk?” Peter suggests, stepping toward her slowly. “There’s no point in leaving it on the floor.”

 

Her eyes narrow slightly, her head tilts. Lydia doesn’t know what to make of his response, but she picks up her handbag and looks over her shoulder at the desk behind her—the one she plundered in, looking for clues just last week. With a steady assurance in her steps, she makes her way to it and places her handbag on top, and then she turns around to face him again, propping her hands onto it and lifting herself up to sit on the edge.

 

She crosses her knees coyly and gives him a challenging look.

 

Peter smirks as he finally reaches her. Lydia doesn’t complain when he breaches her personal bubble, his hand against her cheek as he leans in close and scents her alarmingly close from neck to temple. He opens his eyes, his lips nearing her ear as they part. His eyes focus somewhere beyond the windows of the loft, even though his mind is present in the moment.

 

“Do you want to finish what you started last time you were here?” Peter asks, his fingers purposefully caressing along her spine. His words are meant to throw her as he hopes she’ll think of her betrayal.

 

She does.

 

Lydia freezes before she catches herself. She isn’t as good at this as she thinks she is. “Finish what, exactly?” she inquires in a low voice, reaching for his belt with deft fingers with the intention to unhook it.

 

Gently, Peter pushes her hands away with his wrist. “Not so fast,” he murmurs. “I want to savor the moment.” He holds her face in both hands as he captures her lips in a slow kiss, relaxing her. The tenseness leaves her shoulders, and her legs loosen, too.

 

When he pulls away, Peter lets his hands fall to the hem of her dress. His fingers caress her thighs and trail upwards along smooth bare skin. “Let’s see,” he says playfully, “if you’re good at following directions.”

 

Lydia’s eyes flare, and he grins, letting his hand run higher until he feels her damp curls and the hot center beneath them. He grunts and pulls his hand away, stroking her thigh instead. “Good,” Peter whispers. “More than I hoped, truth be told.”

 

“You said you could help me,” Lydia reminds him breathlessly, her timing just a little awkward.

 

“I can and I will,” Peter answers her, “but not before I help you with something else first . . . ”

 

Their eyes lock as he sucks on two of his fingers to wet them before placing the hand between her legs to stimulate her at the same time as he captures her lips in a heady kiss. Lydia forgets her question and leans back onto the desk, spreading her legs further for him as she moans against his mouth. He rubs sweet circles against her until she is soaked before sinking two of his fingers inside her. Lydia gasps, involuntarily grinding her hips down on his hand, but stills herself long enough to demand near his ear, “No, use your tongue—”

 

He likes that she knows what she wants.

 

“Your wish is my command,” Peter answers smartly, but he’s on his knees before she is even on her back, his tongue parting her and delving in as her body arches harshly against the pleasurable sensations it gives her. Her hand reaches for his hair, fingers running along his scalp and grasping hard at the short strands. She grinds her hips into his face, and it only spurs Peter forward until she is wracked from her orgasms and his cock is too hard in his jeans.

 

When she slumps on the desk, breathing harshly, Peter rises from the floor and wipes at the corners of his mouth with his thumb. He looks over Lydia, her hair splayed across the wood and her chest rising and falling rapidly. She sees Peter looking and closes her legs, pushing her sundress back down to cover herself. It’s his gaze that does it, he thinks, because he isn’t looking at her like a man in lust. He ignores the erection in his pants. There are more important things to consider for the moment.

 

There is calculation written in his eyes, and she sees it as he walks around her to sit down in the chair on the opposite side. Peter couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get a good taste her before confronting her about last week. After all, she may never give him another chance to after tonight, and at least this way, he’ll always know.

 

Lydia sits up slowly, turning around halfway to face him.

 

It brings a smile to his face as he cracks open the desk drawer. Her eyes dart to it.

 

“Go ahead, Lydia,” Peter tells her. “Look. You were looking last week when you were here.”

 

Her breath hitches, eyes flying up to meet his.

 

“It’s all right,” Peter continues. “I mean, I’ll get it out for you if you insist . . . ”

 

He bends over, reaching in for one of the manila folders and pulling it out. It hits the desk with a slap, but Lydia doesn’t jump. She just stares at it.

 

She raises her eyes to his. “What’s this about?”

 

Peter meets her gaze coolly. “You tell me.”

 

Despite her previous falters, Lydia holds up well this time. Her face is iron as she lifts her chin. “You’re hiding things,” she accuses him.

 

“Yes,” Peter answers, flipping open the folder to reveal its boring paper contents, “adoption papers and a birth certificate.” He looks Lydia in the eyes. “My own private business, thank you very much.”

 

Lydia hesitates. “You could’ve switched them with whatever what was really in that drawer.”

 

Peter cocks his head. “To what end?”

 

She has the strength to look him in the eyes. “I don’t know.”

 

He leans forward. Her position on the desk makes her higher than him, but Peter looks up at her without a problem. “If you want to know something, _ask_. I don’t recall ever lying to you before.” With a forceful shove, he shuts the desk drawer. “And I don’t like snoops.”

 

Her lips purse. “I don’t like your tone.”

 

Peter stands up suddenly, causing Lydia to jump a little. He notices, pausing and moving slower to lean in close to her mouth. His hand grazes her neck, brushing aside her cardigan to glide over her shoulder. She shivers at the touch, but remains still. “I like you, Lydia, in all manners of the word,” he whispers, fingers traveling further and pushing at the cardigan until her arm is halfway bare, “but I’m not some lovesick teenager, and these games don’t work on me.”

 

He raises his hand back to her face, caressing her cheek. His thumb passes over her bottom lip. “Now, tell me, is there something you want to ask me?”

 

“Are you planning on hurting Derek?”

 

She is blunt, and it takes Peter off guard. He pulls back, the disbelief in his eyes as clear as it is in his voice. “ _What_?” He can’t keep the ridiculous smile off of his face. “Derek? As in, my nephew Derek?”

 

Her eyes are hard. “Are there any others?”

 

Peter’s hand falls from her face. His voice is serious this time. “You really think I would hurt my own nephew?”

 

“You murdered your own niece, didn’t you?”

 

It’s a sore topic, and Peter pulls away from her completely. He turns his back to Lydia, focusing eyes on the windows instead of her. “That was a different story, and I don’t think you were there.”

 

“So, you’re just going to justify it?”

 

His jaw sets tight as he remembers that night. None of them would understand. None of them have. He’s explained it before, but no one has ever listened and he is tired of explaining it now. Somehow, though, Peter finds himself still talking, and he isn’t sure why.

 

“Do you know what it’s like,” Peter begins to tell her softly, “being trapped in your own body for six years? Unable to move. Unable to talk. Unable to interact with anyone or anything around you. Trapped in it with only your mad thoughts to keep you company, having watched and listened as your family burned alive around you. Do you know what burning flesh smells like, Lydia?”

 

It’s a honest question, but she is silent behind him.

 

“It’s repugnant,” Peter continues, his voice wavering and eye watering. “Family has a distinct scent to us. You recognize them by their scent, their looks, and their familiarity. It’s part of our biology to scent family from outsiders, to know the difference—and just _imagine_ that scent, that _familiarity_ , burning all around you in the air like breakfast bacon—” His voice cracks, and he wants to laugh because there are unshed tears in his eyes, that he would cry over them and yet slaughter his niece. It’s true. He did it.

 

“I had to live with that scent and those screams in my head for six years, Lydia. I had to live with Talia’s failure to protect us and my unheard warnings in her ear everyday that led up to that moment.” Peter turns around to face her, schooling his face back to normal. “And do you know what I wanted more than anything? _Revenge_. To kill those who had anything to do with the fire. To kill the _weak_ that would allow things like that to happen. Only the strong deserve to survive.”

 

He walks up to her, passing over shadows on the floor. She is still sitting on the desk, but she has turned to face him fully, listening to his story, though he sees a sudden streak of judgment on her face at his last words. “Torment,” he tells her, “that’s what I lived with. It drove me out of my mind, and I picked survival and revenge over Laura’s life. I did. I won’t deny that, but if I could take it back . . . she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I needed the strength of an Alpha.” Peter tilts his head, regarding Lydia in the low light as he runs a finger along her chin. “I chose life over being a sad story. Same as you.”

 

“That’s not the same,” Lydia manages to say. “You attacked me, and I—”

 

“It’s a different story with the same ending,” Peter counters. “You fought to be a survivor, the same as me. Maybe you didn’t have to kill someone with your bare hands, but someone still had to die, didn’t they?”

 

Lydia’s face tightens, and Peter is sure she is remembering every fallen body led straight to her feet ever since her powers started to manifest themselves. There is as much death in her wake as there is in his, and perhaps it’s part of the reason why he is so drawn to her. There are other reasons, of course, but this one sticks out.

 

“It’s not an excuse,” Lydia says.

 

“No,” Peter answers, “but it’s a damn good reason, don’t you think? Can you be so certain you wouldn’t do the same if you had been in my shoes?” His eyes scan her face. “Or would you have chosen the tomb?”

 

She bites her lips together, heaving out a deep breath. “I’m not a killer.”

 

“And you’re not entirely innocent either,” he says.

 

Her lips part, an answer waiting to come out. “No,” she whispers, “I’m not.”

 

“If you want my help, I’ll give it. If you want to share my bed . . . ” Peter pauses, ghosting a hand up her thigh to gauge her reaction. She doesn’t fight it. “You can have that, too. But I require a little _trust_.” His eyes flash up to hers.

 

“I’m supposed to trust _you_?” Lydia shoots back.

 

Peter doesn’t falter. “Name one time I’ve lied to you, Lydia.”

 

She stares at him in silence, wracking her brain for an answer, and swallows past a lump in her throat when she comes up with none.

 

“Now,” Peter says, cupping her cheek, “do you want my help?”

 

She makes him wait for it, but he sees her answer in her eyes long before she ever says it.

 

“Yes,” Lydia tells him.

 

Peter smiles.

 

 


End file.
